I was a boogeyman for 12 years. Yesterday the kid I was supposed to haunt finally saved me
Boogeymen are born from normal people; people who have let the evil enter and break their minds. It starts with seemingly innocent bad thoughts. Someone has let their dog poop in your front yard and you half-jokingly wish they were hit by a bus. You newborn son can’t get a whole night of sleep. You love him, but you wish just a little bit that he didn’t exist. You look at your boss, yelling at you for being late and sleep-deprived, and imagine yourself twisting his neck, very, very slowly, until he cannot breathe. You sometimes feel a lack of memory, like some minutes went by and you didn’t even notice, or someone had a whole conversation with you that you can’t remember, but you blame it to your stress and bad sleeping. Your boss is putting you through a lot this week. Your neighbors don’t say good morning to you anymore. Even the overfriendly neighbor is different. He timidly waves at you, but in a colder way. You say something that sounds normal to you when you’re mad, but the whole room is looking at you like you’re crazy. The water and the food start to taste weird. And the smell. The sulfuric smell will never leave your nostrils anymore, although no one else feels it. Like your very soul is rotten. You go to the doctor and with a shaky voice he asks that you never come back again. He won’t tell you what you have, he didn’t even charge you. You suspect the smell comes from inside, so there’s no amount of baths and lotions that can solve it. You go to churches and temples and synagogues and mosques but no one can help you. No one can find what’s wrong. There’s no devil, no vengeful spirit. The poison is in your very being. You realize nothing of it can ever go away again. You only had to feed It once or twice before It learned to feed Itself on you. You find yourself in the middle of the night in the living room. You don’t remember getting there. You’re fully dressed, covered in sweat and holding a butcher knife in your hand. There’s no blood, but it could have been bloodied moments ago. The next day, you watch and read the local news, praying that none of the vicious actions they describe are yours. You start a diary, because that’s what people descending into madness do. They write to document their decay. But when you try to write, you notice you have no control over your hand anymore. You write what It wants, not what you intended to. You know It craves violence, unspeakable acts that make your stomach churn, so you lock yourself. You know you’re dangerous and others will be safer without you around. But It controls your every move, so It unlocks all the big padlocks every night. That’s the reason you can’t die. You’re not in control of your body anymore. You’re locked outside of yourself. It has taken over. You’re not you anymore. Your friends abandon you, your family despises you.. Your eyes hurt and you hate the light. Your fingers are numb, everything is numb, because your body isn’t yours anymore. Maybe Humanity’s greatest fears of all are Being Forgotten, Being Misunderstood and Powerlessness, and you get to experience all of them at once. What you used to be – the real You – no longer exists in other people’s memories. Your loved ones suppressed every good time they had with you, and replaced any fond recollection of you by fearing what you are now. You must be left behind, because now you’re It, and It is evil. You try to explain It is not you, but your body won’t obey you. You’re finally kicked out of your shell, and now you’re just a disembodied shadow, living under some kid’s bed. I don’t know for sure how I ended up there. Everything was foggy and felt like nothingness. I was a shadow, could only move across the shadows, so I stayed under the bed or in the closet a lot. Despite having lost everything, at least I felt safe for the first time in a while. I have no idea how long it took for me to be noticed. I tried to keep track of the time based on how many times the boy came to sleep above me, but I kept forgetting. I wanted to retain whatever information I could, but a shadow has no memory. So I don’t really know. “Is anyone there?” he asked. I don’t know if I had seen him before that day or not, whether he was thin or chubby, or the color of his hair. I just remember thinking that judging by his voice he wasn’t older than 8. He noticed me. Amazed by having my existence acknowledge, I tried to talk. To tell him it was lonely and dusty and maddening to be what I was – something next to nothing. I was like a phantom limb of a mind, and even thought it couldn’t technically ache, it did. And it was excruciating. I wanted and desperately needed to tell someone about it. Of course I had no vocal chords. Hell, I didn’t even have a body, or an entire mind. Everything came out as a terrifying growl, and kids can hear it. The boy screamed for his mom. I cowered in the darkest shadows as she came, sleepy and grumpy, and turned on the light. “I heard something under the bed”, he whimpered. She checked on me. Even though I didn’t have eyes, I could somehow see her with my battered half-mind. She was older, probably in her mid-40s. She wasn’t mad or unkind, just exhausted. “There’s nothing here, sweetie. Wanna come to my room? Mom is really tired today.” The boy agreed. I envied him. I wish more than anything that I had comforting arms to fall on and rest. I didn’t have a lot of story with this boy, or at least I can’t remember. He frightened easily so, no matter how much I wanted to communicate with someone, I refrained from scaring him. I guess I’m just bad at everything, including at being a boogeyman. I heard conversation around the house, but for a long time, it was just the boy and his mother. I rarely ventured outside the bedroom, afraid there wouldn’t be enough shadows for me to come back before morning. I was completely sure that I was going to disappear if I stepped (and I use this word very loosely) into the light. And even though everything was so bad I wanted to exist, so I was afraid and cautious. The house was too big for only two people. I eventually learned that the mother had an older daughter – she apparently was in college and was the most frequent visitor. The daughter was a joyous young woman, I really liked when she was around. I wish she was younger so she could hear me. She felt like she could bear to listen to my awful cries and not be scared, even when she was small. As the boy aged, I understood that he couldn’t hear me anymore. So sometimes I would talk aloud and make those awful noises just because I could. Just to remember myself that I was still clinging to existence. The zenith of my life with the boy was when I learned that I could manipulate objects to some extent if I really focused, right before he decided to move to the larger bedroom his sister used to occupy. He was a pre-teen by that time, and I heard him pacing around the room looking for something. I didn’t really understand what it was, but it was some sort of memento of his late father. It was important. Then I saw – once again, I use this term very loosely – something shinny close to me, under the bed. It was a reliquary, one of those you wear around your neck. I really wished that I could give it to him in that moment. Really, really wished. Then it happened. Slowly but surely, the thing moved. The boy sounded so relieved and happy when he finally found it with my happy. I felt accomplished for the first time in my life as a boogeyman. The next few years are a blurry of waiting and lurking around cautiously now. We boogeymen can only move on shadows, but we can’t squeeze through the cracks of windows or under doors. If I’m being scientific, we’re more like a slime made of shadow. That’s why, no matter how much I considered relocating to another house and trying to talk to other children, it wasn’t easy. I was stuck with a teenager and a middle-aged woman who couldn’t hear me. Then the boy went to college too and it was only me and the mother for a while. Not even the older daughter would come. It was boring and lonely. After making a painstaking effort to remember, I finally recalled the daughter and the mother having a huge fight over the character of her boyfriend; I just don’t know when it was. I was almost making up my mind about going through the risks to find another place when the mother started renovating the bedroom I lived in. the bed above me, now painted white and with pink sheets, was going to have a new occupant. The day the daughter came back was full of tears. She cried, apologizing to her mother, while the older woman kept telling her that there was nothing to worry, and that despite everything, she was really happy. She was now a grandmother. I, too, could barely contain my excitement. Lisbeth, the granddaughter, was a cute little thing; I think she was around 4 when they arrived. She sounded delighted with her new bedroom. Both her mother and grandmother put her to bed that night. She asked to sleep with all the lights turned off like a big girl. Chuckling, they complied, and closed the door, in total darkness. Of course the two adults had a lot of talk after all these – I suppose – years. “Hey, little monster! I know you’re in there. I’m not afraid of you”, she stated. If I could smile, that’s what I would have done. But I didn’t say anything; I was unsure whether she really felt my presence or just assumed there would be a monster. This was an opportunity too precious to be ruined. I didn’t want to scare her off on the first day and lose her company. “Seriously, little monster! Knock if you’re in there!” I made whatever sound I could. She laughed in delight. After that, we developed our system to communicate. I would make one noise for yes and two noises for no. Lisbeth asked me all sorts of things. Silly things, from her little kid universe, like if I thought her doll was pretty, or if she should wear blue socks instead of white. Things about her family – if I knew her uncle who lived in this room before, if her mother was beautiful, if I could go to her dad’s house and hunt him. I replied everything, overjoyed to feel important and heard. “Do you have big, scary eyes?” No. “Do you have nice eyes, then?” No. “Are you eyeless?” Yes. “Oooh, that’s scary! But not for me. Don’t worry, Poggy.” Yes. And I still don’t know why she nicknamed me Poggy. “Do you have hands?” No. “That must be hard, Poggy. So you have paws?” No. “It’s really hard to imagine you! Can I see you pretty please? I swear I won’t tell mom or nana.” No. “Aw. Are you ashamed?” No. She was deep in thought for a long time. “Oooh, so are you invisible?” Yes. “That’s so cool!” Once again, she was quiet. I thought she was asleep. “Can you move things??” After learning that I could move things, Lisbeth came up with more ways to communicate. She would put many small objects (little balls, a Barbie shoe etc.) under the bed, and depending on what I moved I could answer things like “probably”, “I don’t know”, etc. That improved our communication a lot. We talked for hours and hours every day. Despite being limited by her youth, she was a very clever girl. She was able to ask me a chain of questions that led her to conclude that I had been human before. This fact seemed to scare her. She then asked if her mother or grandmother could become boogeymen too. I don’t think so, I replied, moving a little replica of a racing car. When she ran out of questions to ask me, she would ask her mom and nana: what do you ask someone when you want to know them better? Luckily, they thought it was cute. They thought I was Lisbeth’s imaginary friend – and well, I was. I never meant to harm or scare her. “Ask their profession and if they have kids”, her mother replied. Lisbeth came back happily, and for a long time, she tried to guess what I worked with. Fireman? Policeman? Teacher? Scientist? Astronaut? Doctor? Lawyer? Nurse? Actor? The person who gives you a Happy Meal in the mall? Gardener? Cleaning lady? Lunch lady? To all of them, I replied no. she wasn’t disappointed, though, just more fired up. I was a mere office worker, something kids never think of because it’s not glamorous or close to their reality. “Mom, tell me a profession!” “Uh, teacher.” “No, I already asked if Poggy is a teacher!” When Lisbeth asked “secretary” I finally said yes. Close enough. “Do you have kids?” Yes. “Are they like you?” No. “Do you love them?” Yes. “And they love you?” I don’t know. “Sorry, Poggy. You’re my friend and I love you!” I think I spent a year or so with Lisbeth. She healed my soul, if I had a soul to heal. No one had ever been that kind to me. I know it’s my fault that I let It in and corrupt my very being. But I felt that if I had been treated so well before I would have never allowed it to happen. For the people in the house, life went on. Lisbeth’s mother started dating another guy, someone the grandmother adored, so he was always there. The place was lively. It almost felt like we were all one big happy family. I didn’t exact sleep, but I had some sort of dormancy period daily. I was abruptly awakened with the sound of someone entering the bedroom; I think it was from the window. A tall figure violently took Lisbeth from her bed, making her whimper, still in her sleep. It then moved to another room, Lisbeth in their arms, not turning on the lights. Distressed, I followed. We entered the third bedroom, and I immediately moved to under the bed. “You fucking b*tch!” the person barked, turning on the lights. Lisbeth’s mother and her boyfriend were jerked awake. “Luke! For Christ’s sake, what you’re doing?” “Dad!” Both sounded incredibly scared. Lisbeth had told me a lot about her father. Even in her childish words, I was able to imagine a world of pain and fear. Lisbeth’s mother put up with a lot of verbal and physical violence, ashamed to admit that her marriage was a huge mistake. I heard Dad screaming to Mom a lot and breaking things, but he was nice to me. He told me she had been naughty so he had to ground her. I believed him at first, but Mom wasn’t naughty. She was good. She brought me here the day Dad hurt me and told me he never let her talk to my nana before. Lisbeth’s mother sobbed. Luke was pointing a gun to his own daughter’s head. “How dare you sleep with another man, you fucking tramp! You’re my wife, I’ll never give you up”, he yelled. “We’re coming back home now.” Lisbeth’s mother started moving meekly towards him, crestfallen and humiliated. Her boyfriend motioned to stop her, but Luke spoke again. “Come on, you horny b*tch! You’ll either obey your husband and be punished for your unfaithfulness or your life will be a living hell knowing that your daughter died because of you!” “Dad! Please! It hurts!” Lisbeth pleaded, the metal barrel glued to her little forehead. My heart ached. Everyone was so scared, the room was so bright. I’d try to help anyone in that situation. Anyone. But the sweet little girl who made me feel someone again, who healed me, who gave me hope and reason to exist? You can bet I’d give everything to save her, including what little of me still hadn’t evaporated. So I wished with all my might that I moved the gun. And my non-body, the slime of darkness that I was, jumped towards the light. It felt like I was a sieve, with light perforating every pore that I didn’t have. It hurt. It hurt but it also felt liberating, like I had finally atoned for my sins and was free, choosing to sacrifice happily for something that was worth all that I had. I was fast, a flash of dark in the light. I was able to move the pistol from his hand, causing it to pirouette e hit him in the head with the butt of the gun. Before disappearing I saw his body starting to fall unconscious, almost in slow-motion, and I heard Lisbeth’s frenetic voice. “Poggy saved us!” I abruptly woke up back in my own body, like when you dream of falling. It was gone, or at least I couldn’t hear Its malicious thoughts anymore. I tried moving my hands. Slowly, finger by finger, everything worked. I laughed with joy. I almost couldn’t believe my luck. I thought I was gone forever. I opened my eyes and saw my husband by my side. I smiled happily, opening my arms to hug him. Instead he looked scared and twitched, moving to the farther side of the bed. “I’m so, so sorry. Did I snort? I should sleep in the guest’s room, but you insist…” “Babe, it’s fine. It’s me”, I tried to explain, with the softest voice I could. But his eyes were full of panic. He was so washed-out, pale, thin and with swollen eyes, like he spent most of his life crying. He probably did, considering what It kept talking about doing. And he looked old. Really, really old. I was ready to dismiss everything as some sort of drug-induced dream, but clearly years had passed – based on Lisbeth’s uncle, at least a decade. I instinctively looked at the corner of our room where the crib of our newborn used to be, but there was nothing. The room was arranged somewhat differently too. “Where are the kids?” I asked. Still looking terrified, he guided me to their rooms. “Please don’t be so harsh, Rachel. I know they didn’t mean to say your cooking was bad”, he begged me. My newborn was now a handsome 12-years-old little man. I cried as I hugged him for the first time in so long. Being a boogeyman was so scary. But nothing is scarier than being back and having to pick up the pieces that It left. Nothing is scarier than knowing how hard it will be to be trusted and loved again. Still, I’m grateful I’m here. I want to spend the rest of my days redeeming myself with the ones I love for everything It did through my body while I was almost too far gone in a dark, dark place. Category:Fanfic Category:Creepypasta